Psyche!
I packed my bag of kit and threw my bike on the car, just like I'd done pretty much every other day since I started riding. I made sure to ask the wife if I had any scheduling conflicts that might conflict with riding after work, and upon receiving the verbal go-ahead set about planning my day.
I pushed through my list of projects, and was on the last one when she called. She didn't feel well and I needed to pick up the kids. Suddenly my day just got longer. I let it slide, because I had ridden for two straight days and really needed a rest day. Extreme performance like I've been exhibiting requires periodic taper periods to keep the finely-tuned engine firing at peak efficiency. Fine, no bike for me. This was especially painful as I walked out into a beautiful (if chilly) fall day. I picked up the kids, drove home, and buried my face in a five pound bag of pretzels.
The next day I asked again, and was told I would be picking up the kids (again). I decided I was sufficiently recovered, so I picked them up and immediately changed to go ride after we hit the door. Objects at rest tend to carbo load unless acted upon by an exterior force.
I dressed warm, which included a lot of kit I rarely use. Most of it was black, with the occasional reflective strip. Not the most high-viz stuff, but I hoped my blinky light would alert drivers blinded by the low sun to my presence, enabling them to hit me squarely while maintaining my attire meant I was "asking for it". Cyclist slut-shaming. At least I would die relatively comfortable.
I didn't see many people on bikes. Overweight middle-aged guys on cruisers and kids on BMX bikes. Utility cyclists one or two DUIs past a drivers license. Meth heads on obviously-stolen bikes scoping out neighborhoods for plunder. Even another blacked-out roadie like me. I waved at them all, because they were all out there with me, defying the encroachment of winter. We were the grasshoppers who fiddled away the summer, while the ants who rode wisely were warm in the garages, tuning up their fat bikes.
I rode to the hillside and started climbing. By climbing, I mean I picked the easiest way to gain elevation I could find. Slowly I moved up the hill, not really concerned with setting any records. I allowed my mind to wander and fixate on the random, like the patches of light snow and frost protected by the shade of bushes and embankments. I thought meaningful thoughts, only to forget them as my brain was distracted by the next shiny object.
Perfect.
Eventually I climbed enough, and turned around for home. 35 MPH is a bit nippy at 27F, not that I was trying to go fast. Mainly I was braking with my fat rolls, allowing them to flap in the wind. At the bottom, the rictus grin that adorned my face eventually shattered as it warmed. The snotcicles started to flow again. I could blink. Come January temperatures like this would seem balmy, but at the moment my cold tolerance isn't up to snuff. I didn't push it on the way home (why start?). I just enjoyed the sights and smells of the season.
The next day I asked the wife if there were schedule conflicts, packed my bag, threw the bike on the car, and drove to work knowing full well that the rug could be pulled out from under me at any time.
Psyche.
I pushed through my list of projects, and was on the last one when she called. She didn't feel well and I needed to pick up the kids. Suddenly my day just got longer. I let it slide, because I had ridden for two straight days and really needed a rest day. Extreme performance like I've been exhibiting requires periodic taper periods to keep the finely-tuned engine firing at peak efficiency. Fine, no bike for me. This was especially painful as I walked out into a beautiful (if chilly) fall day. I picked up the kids, drove home, and buried my face in a five pound bag of pretzels.
The next day I asked again, and was told I would be picking up the kids (again). I decided I was sufficiently recovered, so I picked them up and immediately changed to go ride after we hit the door. Objects at rest tend to carbo load unless acted upon by an exterior force.
I dressed warm, which included a lot of kit I rarely use. Most of it was black, with the occasional reflective strip. Not the most high-viz stuff, but I hoped my blinky light would alert drivers blinded by the low sun to my presence, enabling them to hit me squarely while maintaining my attire meant I was "asking for it". Cyclist slut-shaming. At least I would die relatively comfortable.
I didn't see many people on bikes. Overweight middle-aged guys on cruisers and kids on BMX bikes. Utility cyclists one or two DUIs past a drivers license. Meth heads on obviously-stolen bikes scoping out neighborhoods for plunder. Even another blacked-out roadie like me. I waved at them all, because they were all out there with me, defying the encroachment of winter. We were the grasshoppers who fiddled away the summer, while the ants who rode wisely were warm in the garages, tuning up their fat bikes.
I rode to the hillside and started climbing. By climbing, I mean I picked the easiest way to gain elevation I could find. Slowly I moved up the hill, not really concerned with setting any records. I allowed my mind to wander and fixate on the random, like the patches of light snow and frost protected by the shade of bushes and embankments. I thought meaningful thoughts, only to forget them as my brain was distracted by the next shiny object.
Perfect.
Eventually I climbed enough, and turned around for home. 35 MPH is a bit nippy at 27F, not that I was trying to go fast. Mainly I was braking with my fat rolls, allowing them to flap in the wind. At the bottom, the rictus grin that adorned my face eventually shattered as it warmed. The snotcicles started to flow again. I could blink. Come January temperatures like this would seem balmy, but at the moment my cold tolerance isn't up to snuff. I didn't push it on the way home (why start?). I just enjoyed the sights and smells of the season.
The next day I asked the wife if there were schedule conflicts, packed my bag, threw the bike on the car, and drove to work knowing full well that the rug could be pulled out from under me at any time.
Psyche.
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